Something Not Easily Forgotten
by prettyedsilence
Summary: When Watson comes back from his honeymoon, he finds Holmes exactly where he left him. Watson POV.


When I entered the house, it was as silent and still as a coffin and more stifling than a grave. Which meant, of course, that Holmes was in one of his moods. And since I had been gone a full fortnight on holiday with my new wife, it seemed likely that he'd been here awhile.

As I took off my coat and hung it on the railing, a strange sense came over me. I realized after a moment that it felt like coming home. It was only natural, I told myself, since Mary and I had barely spent a night in our new house together. Still, my hand lingered on the railing as I climbed the stairs, and I breathed deep as I came to the top of the stairs.

There was a strange smell lingering over the place, musky and pungent, and I guessed that my – former – colleague had performed an experiment of some sort to distract his mind, and when that failed (the distraction, not the experiment, for I'd yet to see Holmes hopeless at any endeavor), he had fallen into melancholy.

I gingerly pushed open the door to Holmes's studio and entered.

"Holmes? Are you there?"

There was a series of bangs and a grunt. Instinct took over reason and though I knew that Holmes was a capable grown man, I abandoned dignity and ran over to him like a mother to her child, desperate to see with my own eyes that he was in one piece.

Judging by the imprint in his cheek, Holmes had been sleeping on top of a box containing something that looked like Indian poisons. I knelt next to him and discreetly pushed the box away with one hand.

"Had a good holiday, old chap?" I asked lightly.

His bright eyes stared straight into mine, piercing me down to my very quick.

"Tell me, Watson," he said.

I attempted to laugh and peered down at him, looking up from underneath my lashes at his intense stare. "Tell you what, my dear man?"

"Tell me that we belong together," he said desperately, and a shiver shot straight down my spine.

"Well, Holmes, I'm a married man now, so I'm fairly certain I belong with her…" My voice trailed off as he reached his hands up and grasped my shirt, pulling me down to him.

"No no no no," his voice came out in a frantic rush. "I know you're a lazy fellow - " I didn't deny it, for it was true enough, " – and it's very easy to live with a woman like Mary. She's so nice." He wrinkled his nose and said the word like it was distasteful to him, which of course it was. "Just charming. But the fact of the matter is that you'll be with her your entire life and you'll get along well, I am sure… But you won't feel alive like you do…" his voice trailed off and his hands loosened on my shirt.

Growing more annoyed by the second and moving into something that felt like anger, I leaned in closer to Holmes and demanded, "What? When? When I'm on a case? When I'm in this house? When I'm… with you?"

Holmes seemed to calm and let his hands fall weakly back at his sides. His eyes still hadn't moved from mine.

"Mary can't compare to me," he said. He lifted his chin and his eyes dared me with an arrogance that reminded me so forcibly of a put-out schoolboy that I couldn't help but burst into laughter.

His eyes narrowed in annoyance, but I slid myself around to sit beside him and draped one arm around him, ignoring the fact that in all likelihood he hadn't bathed in the same two weeks I had been gone. Holmes sighed and laid his neck back against my arm, maximizing his contact with me. If he had been a child he would have put his arm across my chest and snuggled into me. Something not easily forgotten stirred inside me, but I pushed it down and pushed him away as quickly as I had settled there.

"Watson, would you make up your mind?" Holmes demanded, one hand resting on the floor to hold him up, the other gesturing wildly. I almost shrank away from him then, for his eyes were wild and his manner frenzied. "I can't live without you, so if you find that you can live without me, please do me the favor of letting me know so that I may shuffle off this mortal coil and end my agony."

I gave him a glare from narrowed eyes before deliberately rolling my eyes. "My dear Holmes, I suspect you're being overdramatic. And I know perfectly well that you would never even consider suicide; you're much too fond of yourself."

"No, I'll simply waste away without you," he said forlornly, and for the second time that day a trickle of fear ran down my spine, for too well could I imagine that very scenario playing out in this lonely, dusty house. I would coming knocking after a few weeks (having been distracted by Mary, or even children perhaps, not to mention my practice) and the housekeeper would tell me that he had been quiet of late, but to feel free to go upstairs. A sense of unease would descend over me, and my footsteps would ring loud in my ears as I ascended the stairs. I'd push open the door to Sherlock's room and see a huddled form lying still atop a pile of boxes…

The horrid image filled my head and I grabbed for Holmes, pulling him in tight against my chest and feeling his warm skin under my hands. A shock of wiry hair tickled my chin and without thinking I leaned my head down and pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

"See?" Holmes said, voice muffled against my chest. "You do want me."

It occurred to me that it was quite likely my irrepressible comrade had planned for me to have that very reaction, but at that particular moment his slight and frail but living, breathing body pressed against mine was more important. I could so easily envision a world without Sherlock Holmes, and the notion scared me to my core.

Holmes stirred restlessly against me, for of course the oppression of even a few moments was unbearable to him. I refused to let him go though, merely loosening my grip for a few seconds as he shifted.

And of course this is why I had left. Holmes was intolerable, particular, insistent, coldblooded, frequently unwashed, and always unchangeable. But even as I thought this, I had the strangest notion that I had never truly left 221 Baker Street, and that I never should.

I pressed another kiss down upon him, my lips brushing the cool skin of his forehead this time.

"I need you more than is wise, my friend," I said. I didn't know the answers to his questions, but that, at least, was true.


End file.
